


Goodbye Stranger

by verysorrytobother



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon Divergence - A Tale of Two Stans, Character Death, Ghost Stan Pines, Grief/Mourning, Major Character Injury, Major Character Undeath, Stangst, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:00:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verysorrytobother/pseuds/verysorrytobother
Summary: "A Tale of Two Stans" canon divergence. Things still go horribly wrong.
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Ford Pines, Bill Cipher & Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Comments: 131
Kudos: 148





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm struggling with writer's block in relation to my other stories, so I wrote some quick angst to help me get out of my rut. I might add upon this later, we'll see.

“You left me behind, you jerk!” Stan shouted, angry tears brimming as he yanked on the journal. “It was supposed to be us forever,  _ you ruined my life! _ ” 

“You ruined your own life!” Ford landed a solid kick to Stan’s chest, shoving him backwards and wrenching the book from his grasp. For a split second, Ford felt a rush of relief.

But then Stan collided with the control panel.

In another universe—multiple, in fact—this was the moment when Stanley Pines was branded. His right shoulder would slam against a red-hot sigil (which should have been considered a safety hazard under  _ any  _ circumstance); he would even be  _ held _ there for a moment by his brother’s boot. The symbol would tear easily through a ratty red jacket and a too-thin t-shirt, smoke curling and the smell of burning flesh filling the air. Stanley would scream. 

But this was not that world. 

Because as Stan stumbled backwards, carried by the momentum of Ford’s kick, he didn’t hit the sigil. He didn’t burn, and he didn’t scream.

Instead, his head met the steel edge of the control panel with a sickening  _ crack. _

He slumped to the floor. 

And he didn’t move again. 

Ford was on his feet in an instant, still clutching the journal close. “Stanley! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! Are you alright?” 

Stan didn’t respond. He didn’t even stir. 

“...Stanley?” 

Stan still didn’t move, and a cold weight settled in Ford’s gut. He stepped forward carefully, hesitantly. His eyes widened and he gasped. The journal fell to the floor with a  _ thud _ . 

Beneath Stan’s head was a dark, rapidly-spreading pool of blood. 

“STANLEY!” Ford immediately rushed to his brother’s side, dropping to his knees. “No no no, oh gosh…” He gingerly felt the back of Stan’s skull with trembling fingers, and his hand came away covered in crimson. His stomach twisted. “Oh gosh, no!  _ Stan?! _ STAN!” He shook Stan by the shoulders, patted his face, desperately tried to ignore the blood on his own hands. “Wake UP, Stanley! Come on, please don’t do this to me, stay with me…” He shrugged off his overcoat and folded it under Stan’s head, hoping to stop some of the bleeding. “You’ll be alright, you’ve  _ got  _ to be alright...oh gosh...d-don’t worry, I can fix this, I can  _ fix this… _ ”

Stan wasn’t breathing. 

Ford felt for a pulse, and let out an involuntary wail when he couldn’t find one. “It’ll be alright,” he sobbed, bordering on hysteria. “It’ll be alright, Stan.” He began chest compressions, taking deep, shuddering breaths in an attempt to calm himself. “One, two, three, four…” 

After thirty, he tilted Stan’s head back and gave him two rescue breaths. His brother’s chest rose slightly, but quickly deflated. Ford bit back a cry and went back to compressions. “This will work,” he whispered. “This  _ has  _ to work.” Count to thirty. Two breaths. 

Stanley remained unresponsive. 

Ford wasn’t sure how long he spent performing CPR, only that he couldn’t stop. He  _ wouldn’t  _ stop, not until his arms were shaking from exertion and it was physically impossible for him to continue. And when he finally realized this, realized that it had been far too long already and that there was nothing more he could do, he collapsed over Stan and screamed. 

“NO! No, no,  _ no,  _ PLEASE!” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, but now he was  _ weeping  _ and begging in a way he never had before. “Stanley, don’t go,  _ please  _ don’t go...I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I-I didn’t mean it! Please come back,  _ please,  _ I didn’t mean it, I DIDN’T MEAN IT!” Ford’s screams echoed through the empty basement, heard only by the portal looming through the glass. 

This wasn’t real. This  _ couldn’t  _ be real. It was one of Bill’s tricks, one of his nightmares or illusions...and Ford nodded, trying to convince himself even as he held his brother’s lifeless body in his arms. Yes, this most assuredly wasn’t real. Because the  _ real  _ Stanley wouldn’t come. He wouldn’t drop all of his criminal, conniving schemes simply because Ford sent a postcard...he wouldn’t hike through the snow with nothing but a small duffel bag, all to help the brother he’d sabotaged...he wouldn’t lay a comforting hand on Ford’s shoulder, he wouldn’t smile softly at the memory of their childhood dream…

Something shattered inside Ford, something that was already broken, and he clutched Stanley tighter as he wept. 

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed again. “I’m so sorry.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stan woke up on Ford’s couch, and his head hurt like hell. 

“Ugh,” he groaned, sitting up slowly. The last thing he remembered was fighting with his  _ stupid  _ brother in the  _ stupid  _ basement over that  _ stupid  _ journal. He gingerly rubbed the back of his head, wincing and letting out a hiss of pain. What the heck had Sixer  _ done  _ to him? 

Stan suddenly froze. His eyes widened. 

His fingers were brushing against a bandage, carefully wrapped around his skull. 

His breath caught in his throat as the implications of this set in. Ford must’ve done it—who else could it have been?—and as Stan looked around frantically, he finally realized that he wasn’t in the creepy basement anymore. He was in...well, some might have called it a living room, if it weren’t buried beneath so many papers and books. That meant that Ford had  _ carried _ him upstairs. Stan looked down at his own (rather substantial) gut, and felt a pang of guilt and sympathy. Yeah, that couldn’t have been easy. 

He stood, head still reeling, and made his way out of the room. He paused at the front door. His car was out there somewhere, though it was probably half-buried in snow by now. The weather had taken a turn for the worse while he was knocked out; it was now a full-blown blizzard. Even if he  _ could  _ find the Stanleymobile, he sure wouldn’t get far. 

So. He could either camp out in his freezing car, or stay in this slightly-warmer Murder Hut with his brother. 

It took him an embarrassingly long time to come to a decision .

Ten years of radio silence, and he finally gets called up to run an errand that Ford was too busy and important to do himself. And then he  _ hurt  _ him—Stan rubbed the back of his skull again, hoping it wasn’t fractured—he hurt him, and practically called him ‘worthless’ to his face.

But then...Stan  _ had  _ tried to burn Ford’s journal. He’d definitely landed a few punches himself. And Ford had patched him up, so obviously he cared—or at least, felt bad enough to  _ try  _ to care. Stan sighed and ran a hand over his face. 

His brother was clearly in some sort of trouble. The crossbow, the portal, the crazed, paranoid look in his eyes...he needed help.

The least Stan could do was stick around until he figured out what was going on.

He sighed again.

_ Murder Hut it is.  _

_ “ _ Ford?” he called as he wandered through the quiet house, opening doors and peeking into rooms. (He  _ swore  _ this place was bigger on the inside than it was on the outside). “Stanford, where are you?” 

There was no response—just room after room of papers, sciencey-looking gizmos, and a weird amount of triangles. Stan grumbled, heading up the wooden staircase. “As if this wasn’t creepy enough.” 

He finally heard a soft noise from behind a door that was slightly ajar. He hesitated. 

“Uh, Ford?” he said. “Are you in there?” 

Still nothing. Stan felt a brief flare of annoyance, but it was soon overpowered by a deep-seated sense of unease that he couldn’t quite place. He slowly pushed open the door. 

Ford sat at a desk, staring at something in his hands.

Stan sighed, equal parts relief and irritation. “Hey braniac, what’s the deal? You goin’ deaf?”

Ford didn’t even turn—alright, so he was definitely ignoring him. Stan rolled his eyes, deciding that maybe his car wouldn’t be so bad, after all. He’d been stupid to worry. Stupid, stupid Stanley—

As he turned to leave, he caught a glimpse of the object Ford was holding. 

His heart stopped. 

It was a revolver. 

“ _ What the _ —FORD! What are you—why do you  _ have  _ that?!” 

Ford still didn’t react. He just continued to stare, a strange, distant look on his face, and for the first time since they were kids, Stan noticed that he had been  _ crying.  _

Without a second thought, Stan lunged forward to grab the gun. He expected to knock Ford aside, maybe starting their fight all over again (but at least that might distract Ford from...whatever this was). He expected Ford to start yelling, asking him what on earth he was doing in that stupid nerd voice of his. He expected Ford to explain that, no, this wasn’t what it looked like, he was building a special science gun that just  _ looked  _ exactly like a revolver, and there was nothing happening at all. 

Stanley did  _ not  _ expect his hands to pass through Ford like he was nothing. 

Stan yelped, stumbling back. “W-whoah, hey, what’s happening?!” He tried once more to grab Ford’s shoulder, but once again, his hands merely went  _ through  _ him. 

“Ford?! FORD! Can you see me?! Can you  _ hear _ me?! Please tell me you can hear me!” 

Ford checked to see if it was loaded, then shakily pulled back the hammer. 

“No no no no no, this can’t—” Stan looked around desperately. His eyes landed on a baseball bat in the corner. For some reason, he couldn’t touch Ford. But he’d  _ definitely _ been opening doors before coming up here, so maybe...

WIthout another moment’s hesitation, he grabbed the bat and whacked Ford over the head. 

Ford let out a small cry and fell forward. At first, Stan worried that he’d hit him too hard, but upon closer inspection, he was just unconscious. He looked like he needed the sleep, anyway—the bags under his eyes could probably carry a grand piano. Stan hefted the bat in his hands and nodded. 

“Nature’s snooze button,” he muttered. With his own head still pounding, he figured that now, they were even. 

He tried laying a hand on Ford’s shoulder, but he still only passed right through him. Next, he tried picking up the gun. Just like the doors and the bat, he could touch it with no problem. He quickly removed all of the bullets, then promptly collapsed on the floor. He lay flat on his back, breathing heavily and staring at his peacefully snoring brother. 

_ What the heck is going on? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It accidentally became a Ghost!Stan fic, sorry...it just happened.


	3. Chapter 3

Admittedly, Stan did not know all of the side-effects of being knocked out with a baseball bat. This was because his first priority was generally getting out of there before the other guy woke up. 

However, he was still pretty sure that eyes weren’t supposed to be yellow. 

Ford snapped awake, sitting up so abruptly that Stan jumped. 

He was on his feet in an instant. “Stanford? Can you hear me?” 

To his surprise, Ford turned to face him.

Stan felt a flood of relief and sighed. Okay, this was good. This was a start. “Great! Alright, I don’t know what was…”

He slowly trailed off. His relief drained away, quickly replaced by a sinking dread. Because there were two things wrong with the picture in front of him. 

First, Ford was smiling. 

It would’ve been unsettling enough on its own; the sharp contrast with the Ford he’d seen a few minutes before, the one staring numbly at the gun and pulling back the hammer with trembling fingers, created a disjointed atmosphere that Stan didn’t know how to breach. But it was also the fact that Ford was smiling _too wide_ —painfully so. His grin stretched nearly ear-to-ear, and Stan inadvertently took a step back. 

Second was his eyes. Which, as previously mentioned, were yellow. 

And weird smiling aside, _that_ was definitely not normal. 

“Uh, Ford?” he said, raising his hands defensively although he wasn’t quite sure why. “You—you okay there, buddy?” 

“Well well well, Stan Pines!” His brother’s voice was unfamiliar and grating. “I must say, I’m surprised to see _you_ here! How’re you doing? Besides the obvious, of course!” 

Was this one of those split-personality deals? Had all of these years living alone in the woods finally driven Ford nuts?

“Um…” Stan took a cautious step forward. “Yeah, okay. How about we get you to bed? You seem pretty sleep-deprived—” 

“Oh, no, I think I’m good right here!” Ford said cheerfully, grabbing the gun on the desk. Stan flinched before remembering that the bullets were safely stuffed in his pockets. “Boy, ol’ Sixer got real close there, didn’t he? Good thing _you_ were here!” Ford paused. “Well, sort of.” 

Stan’s stomach dropped. “You’re not him.” 

“Ding ding ding!” Not-Ford clapped. “I’m impressed! Mostly ‘cause Fordsy always said you were the dumb one, but still!” 

“Listen,” Stan growled, clenching his fists, “I don’t know who or _what_ you are, you yellow-eyed bastard, but you better leave my brother alone right now or—” 

“Or what?” Not-Ford interrupted. “You’ll hit me with a baseball bat? Sorry, champ, but I don’t think that’s gonna work!” He spun around in Ford’s chair. “Really, though, I can’t see why you’re defending the guy. After all, he’s the reason you’re dead!” 

“I’ll—” Stan stopped, brow furrowed. “Wait, what?” 

“Dead! Expired! No longer with us!” Not-Ford laughed, kicking his feet in the air like a child as he spun. “Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t _know!_ ” 

Stan thought about his hand going through Ford. About his brother not being able to see or hear him.

He shook his head, slowly at first, then faster. “No...no, you’re lying.” 

“Am I?” Not-Ford asked, swiveling to a stop. “Then where’s your meatsuit?” 

Stan frowned. “My _what_ now?” 

Suddenly, the face-splitting grin on Ford’s face fell, twisting into a scowl. “Aw, darn! He’s waking up.” He sighed. “Power nap, then. Well, it’s been fun, Stan-O, but don’t worry! I’ll be seeing you around!” 

Before Stan could react, Ford toppled out of the chair, groaning and rubbing his head. When he opened his eyes again, the glowing yellow and slit pupils were gone. 

Ford grabbed the revolver, and threw it against the wall with a frustrated scream when he realized the bullets were gone. He put his head in his hands and let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob. 

Stan’s eyes widened as the pieces clicked into place. He tried to ignore it, but still he found himself going back down the stairs, through the maze of hallways and stacks of paper. He stopped in the living room doorway and stared. 

There was a body lying on the couch, slack and pale and completely devoid of life. 

A body that looked just like him. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! For those of you that have been following my other stories, rest assured, I have more material for them coming soon. It's just that the chapters for this one are really short and quick to write, and help me decompress, so updates are more frequent. But don't worry, I'm not neglecting my other babies! (Okay, I might be neglecting the portal!Stan one a bit. But I promise I'm working on it.)  
> Sorry for bothering you, and thank you!

All of the bullets in the house had mysteriously disappeared. Bill’s doing, no doubt—he wouldn’t want to lose his only puppet. It was bad enough that the dream demon wouldn’t let him live or sleep properly, but he wouldn’t let him  _ die,  _ either? It was monumentally unfair, and Ford supposed that this was Hell. Stuck in an unending loop of misery and guilt, eternally paying recompense for his mistakes.

His mistakes. 

Ford would have cried, but he was all out of tears. He felt wrung-out and dried; numb. Some part of him knew that he should be more focused on the portal—he should be working to dismantle it, he should be destroying the remaining blueprints—and that with the fate of the world at stake, apathy was a luxury he couldn’t afford. 

But he just couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Because what was the  _ point?  _

He rummaged through his desk drawer, finally unearthing an unopened bottle of scotch. He took a long drink.

Then another.

Then another. 

Once the bottle was half-drained, he grabbed a second one from the drawer. With whiskey in each hand, he stumbled from his study and clumsily made his way down the stairs. He soon found himself standing in the living room doorway, swaying slightly. 

He leaned against the wall opposite the couch and slid down it slowly until he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. He sat there in the dark, staring straight ahead and sipping the scotch. His head throbbed in time with each gulp—it almost felt as though someone had taken a baseball bat to his skull. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time Bill experimented with pain. 

Ford closed his eyes. It was quite possible that he had a concussion. Perhaps if he fell asleep, he wouldn’t wake up. 

He could only hope.

Stan sat in a chair in the living room, head in his hands. It still hurt, which wasn’t fair—he was  _ dead,  _ after all. How could he be hurting?

He swallowed thickly. Dead. He was  _ dead.  _ He never got to make millions, never got to come home...he never even made it to thirty. And the clincher? After all he’d been through—the running, the prisons, the gangs and the mobs—after all of that, his own brother had been the one to do him in. 

Ford seemed to be taking it pretty hard, though. Which confused Stan. Because hadn’t Ford been the one to ignore him for a decade? Hadn’t Ford been the one who wanted to send Stan to the edge of the earth, never to be seen again? Hadn’t Ford been the one to call Stan worthless? 

Stan heard footsteps coming down the stairs; speak of the devil. At least, he  _ hoped  _ it was Ford, and not that yellow-eyed thing from before. Stan chuckled darkly to himself. How messed up was his life (afterlife?) that he’d prefer to see his murderer over anyone else? 

Ford appeared in the doorway, swaying slightly and clutching a bottle in each hand. He stumbled over to the wall opposite the couch and slid down it. Stan winced, noticing that one of the bottles was already half-empty. At least he’d managed to find all of the bullets before Ford woke up. (He wasn’t sure  _ how _ he was keeping them in his pockets, considering that he wasn’t really  _ there,  _ but he also wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.)

They sat there in silence for a while—not that it would have mattered if Stan said anything, anyway—until the still air was finally broken by a hoarse whisper. 

“I shouldn’t have let Dad kick you out.” 

Stan started and sat up, headache momentarily forgotten. He realized Ford was talking to the body on the couch. 

“I’ve been so angry for so long,” Ford continued quietly. “Being angry is easier than…” He trailed off and took a swig of his drink, gulping it down like water. He didn't take his eyes off Stan's corpse.  


“But I...I think I know now. It  _ was  _ a mistake, wasn’t it?” 

Stan found himself nodding emphatically, even though he knew Ford couldn’t see him. Kinda sucked that Ford only believed him  _ after _ he was dead, but he’d take what he could get. 

“Just a mistake.” Ford wiped a hand across his face. “All this time, and I...I never…” His six fingers tightened on the bottle, and Stan knew what was about to happen a second before it did. 

The glass shattered against the far wall.

“I’M SORRY!” Ford screamed. “I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY! JUST COME BACK ALREADY!” 

Stan’s heart sank. Ford was  _ really  _ wasted.

He crossed the room hesitantly. “Hey, calm down, buddy. It’s...it’s gonna be alright,” he said, crouching down beside his brother. “You didn’t mean to. I get it.” Here, he let out a humorless little laugh. “And it’s not like I had much of a life to get back to, anyway.” 

Of course, Ford didn’t respond. He just put his head in his hands and mumbled something so quiet, Stan almost missed it. 

“It should’ve been me.” 

The image of Ford staring despondently at the gun flashed across Stan’s mind, and he caught his breath.  _ Nope, nope, nope. _

Stan needed to get through to him, and fast. 


	5. Chapter 5

Ford laid on his back in a field of swaying wheat, staring up at a cloudless grey sky. 

“C’mon, Fordsie, up and at ‘em!” 

Ford ignored him. 

“Well, not _really_ up and at ‘em, since we’re in the mindscape, but...hey, why the long face?” Bill floated into Ford’s field of vision. He managed a pouty expression, despite not having any facial features besides an eye. 

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re still moping over ol’ Stan-O,” Bill said with an exaggerated sigh. “I mean, didn’t he ruin your life or something? I thought you’d be _glad_ to get rid of him—in fact, I’m surprised you didn’t off him sooner!” 

A muscle in Ford’s jaw twitched, but otherwise he remained still. Bill frowned. 

“You’re no fun anymore,” he complained. “I didn’t even have to _do_ anything this time! You broke all on your own!” 

“What do you want, Bill?” Ford asked quietly, sitting up slowly. “I’m obviously unconscious. Just take control already.” He spread his arms wide. “I’m not stopping you.”

“Right. Well, see, here’s the thing. You haven’t eaten or done any of that other human-survivey stuff in a while, and it’s kinda interfering with your meatsuit’s ability to perform. So I need you to snap out of your pity-party and work with me, alright?” 

Ford just stared past him with a blank expression. Bill turned around to see what he was looking at and groaned, rolling his eye. 

“Jeez, are you kidding me? _Again_ with the stupid boat?!” With a snap of his fingers, the _Stan O’ War_ caught fire. Ford flinched as though he’d been slapped. 

“Seriously though, enough is enough,” Bill continued as smoke filled the air. “You can kill yourself all you want _after_ the portal’s up and running. But until then, no blowing your brains out! Got it?” Under his breath, he muttered, “That worthless idiot is only gonna save you so many times before he wises up.” 

Suddenly, Ford was on his feet. “What? _What did you just say?_ ” 

“Nothing, nothing,” Bill sighed. “Man, I’d even take you trying to defeat me over this. At least _that_ was entertaining—this, this is just pathetic.” He rose higher in the air. He began glowing, bright, then brighter.“See you real soon, Sixer!” 

There was a brilliant flash of light, and then Bill was gone. 

Ford woke with a gasp, heart pounding. 

He glanced around. He was still slumped against the living room wall where he’d drunken himself into a stupor. One bottle lay empty beside his outstretched hand; the other was a shattered mess of glass on the other side of the room. Moonlight slanted through the window, casting everything in a milky silver haze. 

Still breathing heavily, Ford gripped his own shoulders in an attempt to ground himself…

...and stopped, as his fingers brushed against unfamiliar fabric. 

He slowly looked down. 

A blanket had been draped over him as he slept. 

Ford shot to his feet, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. He risked a glance over at the couch—which was a mistake, and he quickly looked away as he fought the urge to throw up—but even from that small glimpse alone, he saw that the throw blanket that had been there prior to him passing out was gone. 

No. Not gone. It now lay on the floor around his feet. 

Bill’s words echoed through Ford’s head. 

_That worthless idiot is only gonna save you so many times before he wises up._

And that could only mean…

“Stanley?” Ford whispered hoarsely into the stillness of the house. “Are you there?”


	6. Chapter 6

Stan blamed his raging headache—which only seemed to get worse with each passing moment—for not thinking of it sooner. 

After Ford passed out, Stan began rummaging through drawers and desks and stacks of trash until he came up with a mostly-blank notebook and a ballpoint pen. He opened it up and stared at the page. 

His momentary excitement quickly faded. 

What was he even supposed to  _ write? _

_ Hey Ford, it’s me, Stan. I’m a ghost now. How have you been? Besides trying to shoot yourself and getting absolutely wasted. Also, I’m pretty sure you have a Jekyll-Hyde situation going on with some sort of demon. What’s that about? _

Stan frowned. He had never been good with words—not in life, and certainly not in death. But that didn’t change the fact that he had a lot to say. 

_ Sorry for  _ ~~_ the science fair _ ~~ _ trying to burn your journal.  _

_ I know it was an accident. Don’t beat yourself up.  _

_ You better not do anything stupid. It’s not fair if Ma loses two sons instead of just one. _

_ I missed you.  _

He groaned and tore out the paper, crumpling it into a ball. He was about to throw it when a noise from the living room startled him. He stiffened. 

“Stanley?” came a quiet whisper. “Are you there?” 

Stan ran into the room so fast, his feet could have been on fire. “Yes! Ford, it’s me! I’m here!” 

To his disappointment, Ford still didn’t seem to hear him. He was just looking around the room, an incredibly fragile expression on his face. 

Stan waved the notebook, which he was still holding, in the air. Ford might not be able to see  _ him,  _ but a floating journal had to count for something, right? 

The only problem was, Ford was looking in every direction  _ but  _ his. 

“Ford. _Stanford._ ” Stan waved the book harder, as if that would help. “C’mon. Floating notebook, right in front of you.” 

Ford didn’t turn. 

“Oh, for the love of—” Stan clenched his hands frustratedly, and something in his fist crinkled. He unclenched his hand, revealing the balled-up paper.

Without a second thought, he chucked it at his brother’s head. 

A direct hit. 

Ford screamed—which, under any other circumstance, would’ve been hilarious—and jumped back. His gaze landed on the crumpled paper on the floor.

He slowly looked up, eyes locking on the notebook hovering in the air. 

Stan waved the book in greeting.

Ford’s eyes immediately filled with tears. He clapped a hand over his mouth, muffling the strangled sound trying to escape from his throat.

“S-Stan, is that...is that really you?” he asked, hoarse and wavering. 

Stan quickly flipped open the book and wrote out a big  **YEP** across the page, then turned it around to face Ford. 

Stan wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. 

Needless to say, he was caught off-guard when Ford fell to his knees and began to cry.  


“Stan, I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “I didn’t mean to—I swear, I never—” 

“Whoah, jeez. Breathe, poindexter.” Stan wondered if there was a paper bag lying somewhere in this mess. Did those even work in real life? He started to set the notebook down to search for one, but Ford suddenly cried out, “WAIT!” 

Stan stopped. 

“Please...it’s the only way I can see where you are.” Ford took a deep, unsteady breath. “I...I know you don’t owe me anything, and you...you must hate me. But...please.” 

Oh. Stan sheepishly picked up the book, then frowned. Even if it  _ was  _ the only way to talk to Ford, constantly carrying it around was going to get old, fast. He glanced at the couch, and an idea struck him. 

Ignoring the way Ford’s breath hitched, he set the notebook back down. Then he grabbed the shoulders of his own dead body—boy, wasn’t  _ that  _ a weird thought—and began tugging the ratty red jacket off. 

Stan’s stomach twisted at the cold clamminess of the skin, and the stiffness of the joints as he worked the corpse’s arms out of the sleeves. He finally got the jacket free and shrugged it on. The weight was comforting around his shoulders. He turned to face Ford, arms spread wide. 

Ford looked like he was about to throw up. 

Stan glanced guiltily back at the body. He hadn’t thought about how...disturbing that might have looked. 

Welp. The damage was done now. He grabbed the journal and wrote out,  **Can you see me now?**

Ford shook his head, then nodded. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, I can see that you’re wearing the jacket—” He was cut off as the jacket began wiggling around in a victorious dance. 

Despite everything, Ford found himself chuckling at the scene.

Stan grinned—laughing was good. Sure, it was a bit hysterical, but laughing was good. 

Then he thought back to his brother’s words— _ “You must hate me” _ —and his expression grew serious. 

**Ford,** he wrote out,  **we need to talk.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'm absolutely loving everyone's comments/ideas/theories. I already have the next few chapters outlined, so stay tuned! (If you want. You don't have to stay tuned. If it's not your cup of tea, I won't be offended.)

Ford sat at the kitchen table across from Stan—or, at least, the floating jacket signifying Stan’s presence. The pen moved across the notebook paper on its own, then set itself down. The notebook slid across the table, Stan’s familiar blocky handwriting standing out on the page. 

**You got any aspirin?**

Ford stared at the space where Stan’s face would be, clenching the edge of the table so hard that his fingers hurt. “Are—are you  _ kidding  _ me?!” he sputtered. He’d been bracing himself for anger, accusations...even threats painted on the wall in blood would have made more sense than this. “ _ That’s  _ the first thing you say?!” 

The shoulders of the jacket shrugged.

“I can’t believe this,” Ford continued, running his hands through his hair. “I can’t  _ believe  _ this. How are you— _ why  _ are you here? Why didn’t you move on? Why aren’t you—and—” He suddenly broke off, clapping a hand over his mouth as realization hit. “Oh. Oh, gosh. You...aspirin. You’re in pain.” Ford was wailing now, on the verge of hysterics. “You’re in  _ pain? _ How are you in  _ pain?!  _ You’re—you’re a  _ ghost! _ ” 

Stan grabbed the journal and pen back. 

**Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is, I woke up on your couch with the worst headache ever, and it’s not going away.**

Ford stared down at the notebook for a moment, throat tightening as he remembered the  _ crack  _ of Stan hitting the machinery. Remembered the blood staining the basement floor. Remembered carefully bandaging his brother’s head, as if that would do any good—as if that would bring him back. 

He turned away. 

“I’ll see if I have anything,” he said quietly. 

He returned to the kitchen with a bottle of pills and a glass of water. He set them on the table in front of Stan, holding his breath as Stan picked them up. 

The lid of the aspirin bottle unscrewed, and two capsules shook out. The pills hovered, the glass tipped back, and suddenly—miraculously—both the aspirin and the water disappeared into thin air. 

Ford gaped. 

“That’s...extraordinary,” he said. “You can actually  _ consume  _ things? I wonder if this means your body can perform other functions as well…”

Stan was already writing.  **I don’t think it’ll do much, the water just tastes like ash. Thanks anyways, though.**

Ford nodded. “O-of course.” He paused, waiting for Stan to continue. 

There was a long, awkward silence. 

“Stanley…”

The jacket sat up straighter. 

“I...I know that I can’t even begin to make things right.” Ford swallowed, fighting back the tears that were once again beginning to blur his vision. “And I know that I can never apologize enough for what—for what I did to you. But I need you to know...I  _ never _ meant to—”

Stan interrupted by grabbing the pen and scribbling out,  **How are you still crying? I haven’t seen you this weepy since we were kids.**

“How am I— _ Stan!”  _ Ford flushed angrily and scrubbed his eyes. “I don’t know, maybe because you’re  _ dead!  _ Maybe because I just  _ killed _ my own brother! Maybe because you’re now  _ haunting  _ me, yet displaying completely different characteristics from previous ghosts I’ve encountered and thus rendering my knowledge on them completely useless!” He slammed his hand on the table, and the jacket flinched. “I’d say  _ everything _ about our current predicament is fairly traumatizing, Stan!”

Stan started to write  **It’s oka** —, but Ford quickly snatched the pen. 

“No, NO! NOTHING ABOUT THIS IS OKAY!” 

Ford buried his face in his hands. Across from him, Stan folded his arms. 

Neither of them spoke for a long time after that. 

The pen was eventually plucked from Ford’s hand. He raised his head and watched Stan write through red-rimmed eyes. 

**So, you’re the expert. Am I gonna be stuck with this mullet forever?**

Ford snorted despite himself—then stopped, sitting up straight.

“Wait a moment. Do you see yourself as  _ corporeal? _ And not some sort of...translucent spectre?” 

**I look and feel exactly the same, except for the fact that my hands go through you and you can’t hear me. I even got the same clothes on.**

“And it’s just  _ me  _ you can’t interact with, correct? Inanimate objects aren’t a problem??”

The pen twirled in response. Ford, however, didn’t notice the sarcasm Stan was trying to convey. He was too busy muttering to himself. 

“Completely new category...no, a different spectrum entirely...but if he’s...then that...it’s certainly similar enough to be plausible...and that could mean…” He suddenly gasped and turned to Stan, eyes bright with an almost manic gleam. 

“I think I have an idea.” 


	8. Chapter 8

Stan raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle as he followed Ford into his “private study.” (It seemed a bit overkill, because wasn’t the entire  _ house _ basically a private study? But hey, it was Ford’s grant money—if he wanted to spend it on secret elevators and crazy gold locks, who was Stan to judge?)

The space was about as cluttered as the rest of the cabin. A desk was covered in science-y gizmos, including a strange-looking gun with a sort of lightbulb where the barrel should be. Skulls served as bookends on shelves brimming with leather tomes. At one end of the room, something resembling an enormous television screen sat surrounded by other, smaller monitors. Tarps had been hastily draped over the walls. 

Ford was muttering to himself as he rifled through piles of gadgets and stacks of paper. Stan barely made out “couldn’t have taken them with him,” “must have misplaced,” and “kept the blueprints” among the mumblings. 

Stan bopped Ford on the shoulder with the notebook and tapped his pen to the open page. 

**What are we looking for?**

“A pair of omnispectrascopic glasses,” Ford said without missing a beat. 

Stan stared at him blankly. 

Thankfully, Ford caught onto his silence. “They look sort of like metal goggles with green lenses,” he explained. “Fi—my partner invented them. They allowed me to study a being called the Invisible Wizard. Originally, I could only view him with my night-vision binoculars, but those proved to be...less than reliable.” He shuddered. “Anyway, what you said got me thinking; you presently seem to exist on a plane similar to the Invisible Wizard. You can easily interact with objects—only inanimate ones, in your case—you just can’t be  _ seen.  _ So what if I modified the omnispectrascopics to pick up on your unique ectoplasmic signature, in addition to the dimensional properties it already identifies?” 

Stan, who had zoned out halfway through Ford’s monologue, rubbed a hand over his face.

_ Invisible Wizard. Sure, why not.  _

“But I can’t find them anywhere,” Ford continued. “So it looks like I’ll have to construct a new pair from scratch. Which shouldn’t be too much of an issue, we kept most of our blueprints on file—” 

**Why don’t you just ask your partner guy where he left them?**

Ford read Stan’s writing and stiffened. 

“It’s not that simple,” he finally said. 

Stan shrugged. He still didn’t see why Ford wanted to see him so badly—the dude could always just look in a mirror, if he missed his ugly mug _that_ much—but as Stan watched him dig through filing cabinets and flip through books, looking so much more like _himself_ than he had in the past couple of days, he decided that this was a vast improvement. He’d take obsessed nerd-Ford over the Ford that couldn’t stop crying. 

The Ford with the whiskey. 

The Ford with the gun. 

Ford suddenly gasped, and Stan jumped. 

“I’ve just had an amazing idea!” he said, abandoning the stack of papers he’d been gathering and running over to the giant TV screen. He opened a drawer beneath it. “Project Mentem allows me to read  _ thoughts,  _ correct?” 

Stan glanced around to make sure Ford was talking to him. 

“So in theory, reversing the polarization could target brainwaves other than my own!” Ford pulled out a strainer-looking thing with a bunch of cords and wires attached and began fiddling with it. “Then, I’d just have to amplify the frequency with the same modifications as the omnispectrascopics…” He turned to Stan with an excited smile. “Stanley, if this works, I should be able to see  _ and  _ hear you!” 

Stan gave him a thumbs-up.

Then he remembered that Ford couldn’t see his hands, so instead he wrote,  **Cool.**

Ford eventually found everything he needed to build his omni-whatevers, and spent the next few hours working, the silence only occasionally broken by the sound of him muttering to himself. Stan took a seat at another desk, absent-mindedly doodling “Lil’ Stanley” strips. He’d long since given up trying to assist his brother; how could you help with something you didn’t understand? 

While erasing a particularly lopsided “Knuckle Sandwich” stand, one of the pencils he’d been using rolled off the desk. Cursing under his breath, Stan got down on his hands and knees to search for it. On his way back up, he hit his head on the underside of the table. 

Two things happened. 

First, Stan screamed and clutched his head, swearing loudly. While “bearable” was not the term he’d use to describe his headache, he’d finally been able to start ignoring it. Now it spiked, almost sending him back to the floor, and if he wasn’t already dead, he’d think he was dying. 

Second, the desk jolted against the wall, causing one of the hanging tarps to slip and revealing a large tapestry in the space where it had been. 

Ford yelped and immediately jumped to his feet, rushing to cover it. 

But it was too late. Stan had already caught a glimpse of the woven image of a triangle—a triangle whose yellow, slit-pupil eye was sickeningly familiar. 

**Oh yeah,** Stan wrote as Ford struggled to regain control of his breathing.  **I forgot to mention. When you were knocked out, some yellow-eyed creep possessed you.** Ford paled, but Stan kept writing, the pen wavering only slightly.  **You gonna tell me what all** **_that’s_ ** **about?**

Ford sighed and sunk back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“That,” he said, “is a very long story.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept forgetting to announce this, but I'm on Tumblr now at @verysorrytobother, if that's your thing!


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